


The Fair Lady's Game

by shiphitsthefan



Series: Tapas [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Aromantic Will, Asexual Will, F/M, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Romantic Relationship Only Between Bedelia and Hannibal, Secret Relationship, Sexual Relationship Only Between Bedelia and Hannibal, Sherlock Holmes's Seven Percent Solution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Dr Hannibal Lecter has enjoyed a casual long-distance relationship with Bedelia Du Maurier for years. As an opera diva and popular starlet, Bedelia’s rendezvous with him are typically short, whirlwind affairs. Hannibal fell in love with Bedelia the first day they met, but respects her wish to remain an independent woman, though it pains him to do so.Only Hannibal’s friend and adventuring companion, consulting detective William Graham, can solve the case for romance. His methods for doing so, however, remain as unusual as ever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to write anything for #[EatTheRare](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/post/164342663874/you-asked-for-it-youll-get-it-its-time), and then there was this little gnome in my brain that said, "But what about Bedelia as Irene Adler?" It was all downhill from there. Or uphill. There was a direction involved.
> 
> Anyway, I've wanted to write a classic Doyle fanfic for approximately two decades, so I could hardly pass up the opportunity to finally give it a try. This story is therefore set post- _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_ in a hybrid of Baltimore and London in an attempt to keep the atmosphere of the original pastiches. My hope is to have remained as faithful to both canons as possible.
> 
> My utmost gratitude to [aerialiste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/pseuds/aerialiste/works) for helping me prod this into a Sherlockian shape. <3

**“She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn mouth. Then she was gone.**

**‘Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,’ said Holmes, with a smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended in the slam of the front door. ‘What was the fair lady's game? What did she really want?’”**

**—"The Second Stain" from _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_ (1905)**

 

* * *

 

“Get him out of my house, Dr Lecter.”

It was hardly the first time Miss Chiyoh had greeted Hannibal thus upon his return from rounds at the indigent clinic. There was a sharpness to her features this time that worried Hannibal, however, as though she might take matters into her own hands and complete what Mr Hobbs had attempted in “The Adventure of the Opposite House”. Hannibal had no doubt that Miss Chiyoh was, quite likely, a sharper shot.

“How has Mr Graham offended you today, dear lady?”

“In his melancholy,” she began, “he has taken to the harpsichord. The din is intolerable.”

Hannibal frowned. “That isn’t so unusual during the lull between cases.”

“He has also taken to my chimney.”

“I beg pardon?”

_“With a hammer.”_

“Ah.” Hannibal wished he knew what to say beyond that, which words would best placate their quietly furious landlady. “Are you wishing for his permanent removal or…?”

Miss Chiyoh seemed almost insulted by the question—hardly Hannibal’s intention. “At this juncture, I am equally amenable to your inviting him to a long dinner or pushing him off another cliff.”

Again, Hannibal was unsure how to respond beyond, “Ah.” He glanced up the stairs as the harpsichord started up once more. It was going to take hours to tune at this rate. “Today’s paper?”

“On your table beside his breakfast.”

“Graham has eaten?”

“Four cups of tea,” she told him in that same murderous tone. Hannibal was immensely fond of her during Graham’s black moods.

Hannibal tapped the underside of his bowler against his chest. “I believe dinner at Verger’s-in-the-Alameda is in order, then.”

Chiyoh nodded and turned back toward the sitting room. “Take him to the theatre, as well,” she called out over her shoulder. “Or else drop him off at the morgue. He’ll enjoy himself, either way.”

 

* * *

 

From the look in Graham’s eyes, Hannibal had been able to tell he knew why that, beyond Miss Chiyoh’s murderous glaring, he had been forced to attend the opera that evening. Graham was a consulting detective for a reason, after all, even though he failed to understand humanity beyond its criminal nature. So Graham had borne no ill will—Hannibal had known that, too, their great friendship possessing no bounds, their minds seemingly one whole, split between two bodies. Furthermore, and to Hannibal’s delight, Graham had seemed quite taken with the diva, as well.

Bedelia Du Maurier. Hannibal was curious, in a dreadful way, as to how many times he had accidentally said her name in his sleep, when his speech became uncensorable. But Graham had never told him. It was the only social grace the man had.

He’d loved Bedelia so long that, every time Hannibal saw her, he remembered that he wasn’t _supposed_ to comprehend how love actually operated or behaved. It would have, of course, been uncouth and ungentlemanly of Hannibal to tell her how he wished to control and own her entirely by all legal recourse available. The very _idea_ of being tied down would have driven her away. Best to love her as was permitted than not at all.

Truly, Bedelia might as well have been a suffragette for all Hannibal understood her and her propensity for courting gossip and intrigue with careless freedom. As his person suit was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain, undoubtedly an effect of life with Graham and the publishing of their great and incredible adventures, Hannibal had no interest in drawing further attention to himself.

Hence their illicit rendezvous, each time she returned.

Bedelia smiled at Hannibal as he leaned in the doorway of her backstage dressing room. “You’re late,” she told him.

“An unfortunate consequence of now being a public figure, myself.” Her hair spilled in golden curls down her shoulders; Hannibal longed to run his fingers through it, to rearrange each strand in a more aesthetically pleasing manner, to pull the straps of her chemise farther down, the line of the collar a salacious frame. “May I come in?”

“I’m surprised you even bother to ask, Hannibal.”

“Are you not still a lady?”

She laughed and finally met his eyes in the mirror. “I ceased to be one the moment you helped hide my crimes.”

“There are plenty of gentlewomen throughout history who have—”

“At least close the door before you damn me in front of your counterpart.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes and removed his bowler as he entered the room. “Do you really think I would invite Graham to attend unsolicited?”

Bedelia looked away, still smirking. “I’ve never entirely known _what_ you think,” she said. “It’s apparent from your accounts that you are obsessed with the man—that’s all your readers and I are aware of.”

“My obsession with you is near its equal,” admitted Hannibal, “and my adoration different in manner.”

“He nourishes you by the mere sight of him, does he not?”

An insight deserving of both confirmation and admission, he thought. “Yet it is for you that I hunger.”

She didn’t blush; she never did for Dante. “Mr Graham, however, is your great Platonic ideal.”

“And you my Aphrodite.”

Bedelia picked up her hairbrush and offered it to him, arm extended, head turned to face him. She still wore her cosmetics from the performance, overdone to display her features perfectly to the audience, though never to Hannibal. He could tell the sky of her eyes regardless of powders in lamplight. Covering the purity of her skin was heinous, no matter the why.

“Does that make you Ares or Hephaestus?” she asked.

Hannibal accepted her gift, but didn’t say.

She rolled her shoulders back as he began to brush the dust and brilliantine from her hair. “Let us speak of your Mr Graham,” Bedelia suggested. “I am very keen to know the unpublished facts regarding your companion.”

“There is little I do not include in my accounts.”

“Nothing unsavory or unmentionable?”

It was then obvious to him what she desired. “His use of a seven-per-cent solution is well known, and that is hardly a dangerous habit. Otherwise, Graham has no other vices—no licentious behavior, no gambling. He takes to drink on occasion.” Hannibal ran the tip of his finger along the shell of her ear. “As do you, I believe, though more often than he.”

“Never something so common as London Dry.”

“Only the finest of the gentlemen’s vintage for my lovely Bedelia.”

She appraised him in the mirror more closely, no longer meeting his gaze, but surveying the entirety of his countenance. It caused Hannibal to look, himself, to follow the smooth lines of his jaw, fresh from the straight-razor; the careful part and comb of his silvering hair (and how strange, to be of the same age and yet so much older than she); the gold of his tie and his eyes, both reddened in the queer light. He imagined she found him as beautiful as he did—more accurately, as Graham had assured him before they left for Verger’s.

“I have never been yours,” she reminded him. “You are only permitted an allowance, darling; I belong to the world.”

“It is impossible for me to forget,” said Hannibal. Bedelia offered him her hand, an almost secret smile playing on her mouth; he took it, one hand clenching the hairbrush, the other delicate on her palm and knuckles. Their gaze held fast as he brought it to his lips.

Suddenly, Hannibal tightened his grip on her, pulling Bedelia to her feet. She gasped as the brush clattered to the floor behind her, Hannibal’s hand now caught in her hair. Close as they were, Hannibal could smell the drying powder on her scalp, the synthetic heliotropin of her perfume, the heavy brandy of her favored Madeira, and the French chalk of her cosmetics. He wanted to take her back to his rooms in Fell’s Point, draw a bath for her and wash her of all the trappings she hid behind.

“Once a predator, always a predator.” She snapped at Hannibal’s bottom lip, but he managed to keep his outward composure.

“You have never not been willing prey.”

Bedelia tutted, leaning back as far as she was able, eyes alight as Hannibal’s fist pulled her hair along with the motion. “I have never not been your _match,_ if not your equal.” Her smile was beatific, the serenity of Flora, though he knew Bedelia would dissolve into Chloris before the night was through. “That particular distinction belongs to Mr Graham, I believe,” continued Bedelia, and the _Primavera_ in Hannibal’s mind morphed to include Zephyrus in Graham’s image.

“It is only you I wish to capture.”

“And yet you grow harder at the sound of his name from my mouth,” and Bedelia turned just so in his arms to better push her hip against the outline of his cock. Before he could explain himself, Bedelia placed a finger against his mouth. “I know it is not truly he who arouses you so. Tell me, Hannibal: which artist paints our reflections this night, mine and his? What medium have I suggested to you with the mere music of my words?”

“You wicked manipulatrix.” Hannibal gave in, let his mask fall entirely. “Botticelli.” His voice was as gravel; he could feel the swell of blood in his veins. “Tempera.”

“A pair of nymphs, then. Oh, my monstrous man, but how you forget yourself,” she said, “and how easily I see you.”

The room was too warm for breath. “Then perhaps it is you who are the predator here.”

“No.” Bedelia wound her arms around his neck; Hannibal could feel the boning of her corset through the layers of his suit as she rose to her dancer’s toes, dragging one leg up to his waist to fasten him tight against her. “I only play you as he does. The difference is that my play is more…” She finished on his mouth, “Satisfying.”

Hannibal could stand it no longer. He lifted her to sit on the vanity table, cosmetics scattering. At long last, Hannibal reclaimed her lips, chasing her tongue with his own, capturing each exhalation and moan. With his fingers, he unbuttoned the front of her chemise, slipping his hand inside to thumb at her nipples, breasts supported for him by the steel of the unforgiving corset.

Her curses and vulgar undulation were sweet; Hannibal could smell Bedelia’s quickly growing arousal. Hannibal needed to sink his fingers into the warmth of her, feel her flow around his hand. They kissed and kissed, devouring each other as though starved. Bedelia’s head fell back, heavy with her panting, and Hannibal chased her mouth even as he shoved her flush against the mirror.

He longed to lay deep sucking marks down her neck, to stake his possession of her, if only for the moment. But the risk was too great, so Hannibal took out his violence on Bedelia’s nipples instead, merciless, pulling and twisting and rubbing until her voice grew high-pitched. She came to paroxysm, the room filling with the scent of her sex, and Hannibal smiled.

“So long,” she said, gasping. “No one else can—oh God, Hannibal, please, I need—”

Hannibal shushed her as he pulled her petticoat up her calves, pushed it over her thighs to gather around her waist. His fingers knew the way—years of these encounters meant Hannibal had no need to search for her core. The split seam at the crotch of Bedelia’s drawers was normal enough among ladies, but the smoothness of her cunt was not, and Hannibal took his time to do no more than run his fingertips through the simple slit.

Bedelia pushed her hips up to rub against his hand, seeking, chasing the next high only Hannibal could give. He took pity on her at last, slipping two fingers into her, seeking for the secret place few of Hannibal’s colleagues believed in. Whether real or imaginary, Hannibal knew the shocked pleasure it always brought to her face when he stroked the inside of her cunt in such a way; this encounter was no different.

One of her delicate hands held the back of Hannibal’s neck fast, the fingers of the other snaking down between them. Again, Hannibal was grateful for his experimentation with the fairer sex, of how gratifying genital massage was for his partners, especially when manual. The tips of her fingers grazed against the inside of Hannibal’s palm on each of her downstrokes; Bedelia’s walls clenched around his own fingers, now three. It could hardly be equated to true sexual congress, but, if Hannibal was asked to be honest, he would admit that the sight of a woman playing at her own quim was more exquisite than any man-made orgasmic throe.

Bedelia buried her face in his neck as she convulsed again, her strange emission coating Hannibal’s fingers, and he brought them to his mouth to clean with his tongue, waiting for Bedelia to recover enough to watch, of course, for Hannibal did this only for her.

Both of her hands reached for the waist of Hannibal’s pants, loosening them with clumsy, jerking motions as she found his mouth again. It was heady and beyond taboo, the way Bedelia licked the taste of herself from his lips and tongue. Impatient, Hannibal helped her to push down his pants and undergarments, then wasted no time in grabbing her corset-slimmed waist and thrusting his way into her, paying no heed to the aggravation of his old wound.

Bedelia canted her hips as best she could given the position, but Hannibal was snarling, chasing his own completion, and now he did lick down her neck, laying wet kisses across her shoulders. Before long, her clever fingers had loosed his tie and shirt, teeth seeking the meat of his shoulder. She bit down to bloodiness, and Hannibal released deep inside her, pulsing, surrounded by his favorite and most treasured heat.

And then, from the doorway, a slow clapping.

They both looked to the source of the noise, seeking and dreading the discovery of their apparent audience.

“By all means,” said Graham, grinning wider than Hannibal had perhaps ever seen, “don’t stop on my account.”

Hannibal was relieved that Bedelia did nothing more than smirk, head held high, her posture and carriage as haughty as ever, in spite of her state of dress, of her so-called shame. “I would say that the pleasure is mine, Mr Graham,” Bedelia said, “but I believe that’s apparent.”

“Only to the trained eye,” he told her. “I’ve only just arrived—the door was ajar. Whatever my downfalls, I would never spy on my Lecter.” Graham shoved his hands into his pockets, sending the tails of his coat swinging. “Then again, I have been known to lie.”

Hannibal turned his attention back to Bedelia, caressing her cheek with his hand, still damp with her. “I had hoped for a better introduction.”

“You’ve left her wanting.” Graham finally stepped into the room, Hannibal hearing the door shut behind him. “I’ve read your own studies, Lecter. Besides, her feet remain tensed, and there’s a pull to her temples.” He hummed a bit before saying, “I suppose I should take my leave. These activities have hardly been coordinated for my observations.”

“Graham—”

But he interrupted Hannibal rudely, as was Graham’s way. “Why don’t you come ‘round for a late breakfast, Miss Du Maurier? The hour is late for any truly stimulating—” and Hannibal watched his smile grew somehow more gleeful _“—conversation,_ and I should like to know your mind better.”

Bedelia shrugged. “I suppose that could be arranged.”

“Excellent!” Graham tipped his head, then replaced his own hat, an ugly thing Lecter kept trying to rid themselves of. “I’ll see you at home, Lecter, yes?”

He was gone before Hannibal could confirm or deny, left with only his own befuddlement and Bedelia’s rather unladylike amusement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so pleased to discover that Holmes' seven-per-cent solution already had a tag. Herein contains the care of Graham's injection sites, in case that is a trigger.

Mr Graham never took to his bed, but that was to be expected when his mind was spinning with new ideas. Enrapt in his work as he was, Graham had not even acknowledged Hannibal when he came home. Hannibal made his way up the seventeen steps, placed his walking stick into the stand, crossed behind Graham and the harpsichord, and silently retired to his room.

He slept restlessly, and not only due to the ruckus directly outside his bedroom door. Hannibal’s mind was plagued with thoughts of the evening, of his great and terrible love for a woman who promised none in return, of the way she writhed under him as he made love to her, this time on the dressing room’s chaise. Bedelia’s words in his ear were obscene; Hannibal treasured each one, even those she had whispered in his ear about Graham’s interruption, of what they might discuss the next day.

It confused Hannibal, Graham’s sudden interest in sexual exploits. “I have neither drive nor inclination,” Graham had told him once while jibing his courting of Miss Bloom. (It had been a singularly dull pursuit, Hannibal had agreed, but a welcome distraction following Graham’s “death.”) Regardless, Hannibal had always suspected Graham’s strange perversion; they had never been able to hide much from each other.

This was hardly the first time, however, Graham had questioned the nature of sexual desire. It was typically with regard to a case, or else after, Graham attempting to understand how a procreative urge could drive a man to impulsive jealousy or, more typically, murder. “The act cannot possibly be that wondrous,” Graham had opined. “Beyond that, it’s a repetitive, mechanical motion—how does one not succumb to utter boredom?”

Hannibal had quietly laughed. “There is more to it than a piston in motion, dear Graham.”

And so it plagued Hannibal that night, with the memory of Bedelia’s warmth surrounding him, why Graham was so intrigued. Hannibal, possessive of her as he was, refused to share. Bedelia’s other partners had met with poor luck, and would continue to do so. Graham knew better than to think he would be a sole survivor, no matter his and Hannibal’s conjoined brains.

Perhaps Graham only meant to inflame Hannibal’s obsession for his own amusement. They were not always kind to each other.

Bedelia, on the other hand, was another matter entirely, Hannibal’s unwed bride, a great tease and titillation. He had followed Bedelia in his youth, from city to city, both foreign and domestic, mostly ignored until he assisted her in cleaning up her murder of a would-be attacker. Even now, Hannibal was the only one who bore her secret: that being an admirer’s cause of death, whether directly or indirectly, gave her a rush of pleasure like nothing else.

It was the first time Hannibal had made love to her, there against the wall of the cryptkeeper’s sinister workshop, as though Bedelia were nothing more than a three-penny-upright. He treated her as nothing of the sort, however, making it the first of many times he had tasted her, that he given her his mouth. She bit her knuckles bloody as Hannibal pleasured her beneath her cage of crinolines and petticoats, his shoes scuffing against the pavement, the knees of his suit pants muddied beyond repair, only ceasing when his jaw became too sore to go on.

After that, each time she came to Baltimore, Hannibal sought her out. Bedelia always welcomed him with open arms and open legs. There would never be any other woman for him, no matter Hannibal’s reputation as a ladies’ man.

“I leave the vaginal, virginal masses of Baltimore to your own entertainment, Dr Lecter.” There had then been a small explosion from whatever chemicals Graham had left in the roll top bateau and subsequent shrieking from Miss Chiyoh downstairs, and that had been the end of their discussion of Hannibal’s nonlethal proclivities.

When Hannibal finally fell asleep that night—both past and present—he dreamt of blood and baths and, primarily, Bedelia.

 

* * *

 

Graham’s annoyed voice and his incessant banging on their bedrooms’ adjoining door awakened him the following morning. A quick glance at his clock informed Hannibal of the hour—seven o’clock, two hours past his typical time. He must have forgotten to set his alarm the night before.

“Lecter.”  _ Bang! Bang! Bang! _ “Lecter, you need to inform Miss Chiyoh of our impending breakfast visitor.”

“Are you incapable of doing so?” Hannibal winced at another series of knocks.

“She threw a teacup at my head.”  _ Bang! Bang! Bang! _

“Hardly a lethal blow,” but Hannibal was already out of bed, shuffling into his slippers and going for his dressing gown. “Count yourself blessed that it wasn’t the teapot.”

“The entire set in succession was her next intended weapon—”  _ Bang! _ “—assuming I read her correctly—”  _ Bang! Bang! _ “—which I, of course, did.”

Hannibal managed not to sigh, or even smile, both of which were common reactions to Graham’s unintentionally egotistic behavior. “Allow me my ablutions,” said Hannibal, “and if you would change from your pyjamas into appropriate dress, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“It entirely depends on whether or not your state of dress last night is considered ‘appropriate’ or not.”

“Then put on appropriate pyjamas.”

Hannibal thought himself rid of his partner for five minutes at the very least, but Graham opened his main bedroom door, letting it thump against the wall at the conclusion of its swing. “Is it to be that sort of party?” he asked before pulling aside the drape of the curtained recess.

“And, pray tell, what are your wishes in the matter?” Hannibal turned on his heel, striding with the emotion he wouldn’t deign to show on his face. Graham wore his customary flannel drawers and, also customary, little else. “Good God. At this hour, Miss Chiyoh might see you in such a state.”

Graham blinked at him as he scratched the inside of his arm. “I already mentioned her throwing the teacup.”

_ “Dress,” _ ordered Hannibal, then added, “The gray suit.”

“Ah, yes; the suit from our first meeting.” He glanced about the room before spotting his robe draped over the cane-backed chair. “So terribly sentimental, Doctor.”

“Only where you are concerned.” Hannibal looked about himself, and found himself entirely at a loss, Graham having practically destroyed his chemistry bench, if not the whole corner. “You in particular.”

“And also the missus,” Graham called out over his shoulder as he returned to his bedroom.

_ ‘The missus.’ Such a rude, impertinent, inconvenient ass of a man. _ “And Miss Du Maurier, as well.”

Hannibal had hoped the time he spent seeing to his appearance—it was unfair, how Graham managed to wake up less disheveled than Hannibal, even on his most horrific of nights—would ground him, but gazing at himself in the mirror had the opposite effect. All he saw were Bedelia’s eyes in place of his own, a merged reflection as spun gold fell between his fingers. Perhaps Graham’s uncanny abilities were beginning to wear onto Hannibal, too. There was a distinctly hazy quality to reality, the more he aged.

Time. How much longer did he have with Bedelia until she grew tired of his devotion? Of the well of his bottomless love? And how many more days until Graham decided to up and die again? Or else retire to the countryside with his dreamt of herd of hounds?

He felt as if surrounded by glass, waiting for the sands to tip through the top. But Hannibal refused to show it.

Yet Graham always saw, now that they had spent so many years together, the papers and gossips with their wild ideas and accusations. Hannibal was the author of a storm, a human blur, Graham his identical opposite. There was little else to say and nothing to refute.

Graham, then, who waited on Hannibal outside his bedroom door. Bedelia, who soon would wait at the landing to their rooms. Miss Chiyoh downstairs, likely with young Abigail, and perhaps later Inspector Crawford, who would inevitably arrive unannounced to join them for breakfast.

“Fetching as always, Dr Lecter.” Graham wore his glasses, and that quelled Hannibal’s nerves, to know that Graham was as anxious as he.

“Passable as usual, Mr Graham,” and there was nothing to do but wait.

They’re excellent at this, waiting together for the world to happen. Graham reorganized his criminal profiles and newspaper clippings, smoking more tobacco than necessary, not that Hannibal could chide him for it. He frequented the tobacconist as often for himself as for Graham. When Graham would take time to simply sit, Hannibal would leave his writing to join him in front of the fire. Sometimes they parried back and forth in games of wits, but they spent just as much time in companionable silence.

Hannibal couldn’t help but notice how Graham winced when he moved his arms, as they answered questions with questions that morning. “You injected more last night than is typical for you.”

“A sore ache,” he insisted, “nothing more.”

“Meet my eyes and repeat yourself.”

Graham groaned. “I haven’t the slightest idea why I put up with you.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you.” Hannibal rose and crossed to his desk, where he kept his doctor’s bag. “You should be more careful when choosing a site for injection.”

“I thought I  _ had _ been,” snapped Graham.

“Then you partook too much.” Hannibal pushed Graham’s legs off the long velvet settee he insisted was an armchair, then sat down in their place.

“Perhaps.” Graham unbuttoned and pushed off his jacket, then began to roll up his shirt sleeves. It was as common for Hannibal to treat his self-inflicted wounds as it was the cuts and bruises from their various adventures. But these punctures seemed worse than usual, the sites slightly swollen, and Hannibal wondered if they would scar worse than the others that dotted Graham’s forearms.

He set to his task, cleaning and bandaging. “You neglected to wait long enough between filling your syringe and filling your veins.”

Graham muttered, “There was much to consider.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Tell me, Doctor: do you favor the gentlemen or the ladies?”

Hannibal paused in his work, but only for a moment. “Is this a question born of envy, or—”

“Far from it. I’m not attracted to anyone; I only realized last night that I’d never asked your preference in partner.” Graham’s hand shook as Hannibal wrapped his right arm; he never failed to hide his embarrassment when Hannibal cared for him. “You are only ever seen with the weaker sex, but I have smelled the stink of another’s cologne and issue on you at times when you come home.”

“And you have never smelled the perfume of a woman on me?”

“I’ve never smelled the  _ sex _ of a woman on you,” said Graham. “I’d never smelled it at  _ all _ until last night—it’s quite pungent. I’m not sure how you manage.”

Hannibal managed to only huff instead of truly laugh. “You’re curious, aren’t you?”

“About experiencing it myself? About participating? Never.” Hannibal wasn’t certain which part of Graham was more disgusted—his voice or his face.

“Then what is it that concerns you?”

“I wish to watch,” he explained. “To study, so as to further understand such oddities of the physical, the bodily functions of the human condition.”

“Meaning?” asked Hannibal, though it was hardly necessary.

“She is your one great love, yes? To see you give of yourself whole-heartedly as opposed to viewing you with any one of you seemingly endless tarts or, God forbid, some dollymop? My good man,  _ that _ would be the only meaningful way to do it.” He barked a sudden laugh. “Or her, as the case may be.”

“There are a number of tawdry shows you could attend.”

“But none which would provide me sufficient evidence from which to research.”

“An exercise in analysis and discussion.” It was almost simply another one of their conversations, were the topic less sordid and the air in the room not as charged and tense. “However do you intend to make such a radical proposal to a lady?”

“Your lady is, in fact, no lady,” Graham said, chuckling.

“I feel as though I should be insulted,” said Bedelia from the entrance, and Hannibal began to wish the people in his life would learn to knock.

Graham craned his head to look at her. “Do you deny it?”

“I don’t see how I could.” Bedelia moved with a graceful glide, a whisper of ankle-length black short skirt and matching duster, the very tips of her heeled boots peeking from beneath. Her wide-brimmed plumed hat matched the same shade of blue as her daring blouse, and Hannibal quickly decided that it was easily Bedelia’s most attractive look, outdoing even the ostentatious and dramatic dress of the night before.

“I suppose you could do any number of things.”

“Does that vex you, Mr Graham?”

“Indeed not, madam.”

She smiled somewhat wearily; Hannibal couldn’t decide whether Bedelia was insulted or amused by the term, given in jest. “I believe you should call me Bedelia. Unless, of course, I’m interrupting something private, in which case you should call me another car.”

“Forgive me,” said Hannibal as he finished. “Mr Graham required medical attention, but I’ve now wrapped things up.”

Bedelia’s eyes narrowed. “Your insistence on poor wit at any available opportunity is tiring, Hannibal. Expected, but tiring.” She took the strap of her bag with both hands. “But since you have—” She sighed dramatically. “—‘wrapped things up,’ there’s a gentleman inspector downstairs waiting to have a word.”

“Typical,” Graham said, rolling his sleeves back down. “Thank you for your assistance, Doctor.”

“Of course.”

“Now if you would please take your left-handed wife out for breakfast so I may discuss whatever dull and trivial problem Crawford has undoubtedly brought to me today.”

It was Hannibal’s turn to be irked. “You’re being most rude.”

“And I anticipated nothing less.” Bedelia held out a gloved hand. “Come along then, Hannibal. Escort me elsewhere.”

“Attend Price’s,” suggested Graham. “He’ll open early for you, Lecter—James owes me a favor. Tell him this resets the clock.”

“A favor won in chess, then?” Lecter couldn’t help but smile, especially when he saw the slight downward twitch of Bedelia’s mouth when he did so.

“Certainly not in the ring.” Graham put his jacket back on, now wrinkled. “If either of you could ask Miss Chiyoh to send Abigail up with tea for the dull inspector and myself, I would be most grateful.”

“Are you incapable of doing such?” She nearly sneered, which Hannibal decided was promising.

“By Jove!” Graham, gray jacket and waistcoat still swinging open, took up Bedelia’s hand quickly between both of his own. “You remind me of each other. I see why you like her so much, Lecter.”

Bedelia snatched her hand back. “I’m not sure I like  _ you _ very much, however.”

“More’s the pity, but enjoying my company is hardly required.”

“Such a terrible, twitchy little man you are.”

Graham grinned, buttoning his waistcoat. “I respect you more by the minute.” Once finished, he clapped and rubbed his hands together; Hannibal had rarely seen him in such a cheerful mood. “Young Abigail,” Graham reminded Hannibal, walking to stand at the window, dismissive, “and whatever you feel publicly discussable with the lovely Miss Du Maurier.”

“Whatever did he mean?” she asked Hannibal as they left 221b Broadway Street.

“His unspoken proposition from last night,” and  _ he _ spoke of it in hushed tones as they walked to Price’s for breakfast. Given the strength and volume with which Bedelia tittered, however, Hannibal’s attempts at discretion were largely without merit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I positively _live_ for Bedelia and Will bickering.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please welcome [abrae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/abrae/pseuds/abrae) to the beta fold! So very, very grateful for their Sherlockian expertise. <3

As Graham had told them, James was happy to invite Hannibal and Bedelia in, though Price’s was not due to open for another hour. Hannibal had to wonder if Graham had rung him up whilst he and Bedelia strolled; James typically only served a continental breakfast prior to luncheon, yet here they sat with a full English. Granted, it wasn’t entirely authentic—crab instead of haddock, no bubble and squeak—but the kidneys were cooked perfectly, so Hannibal found little fault with the inauthenticity.

Bedelia kept to her mushrooms and poached eggs, of course; she’d never been able to stomach eating meat around Hannibal. If he could not possess her, than her gastronomic choices would have to suffice.

“Ever the gentleman,” she said as Hannibal offered his porridge to her.

“It would be rude for me to let you go hungry.”

“As rude as my desertion of the offal?”

“Hardly rude when you share a good meal with a good friend.”

Bedelia laughed. “It’s only polite because you get an extra kidney out of the bargain.”

“As you say.”

Beyond teasing Hannibal for his appetite, Bedelia was strangely silent over breakfast—not that they didn’t speak. They merely talked about the inconsequential: her tour and his writing; her conquests and his adventures. Genteel, because, though James was a kind soul, he was also particularly fond of eavesdropping.

But Bedelia could only stand so much politeness. “The tea isn’t good enough to keep me from inquiring as to Graham’s proposal.” She lowered her gaze before adding, “A girl does not like to be kept waiting, you know.”

Hannibal cleared his throat; he could count on one thumb the number of times he had ever done so. Best to be blunt and to the point, he supposed. “Graham wishes to do more than catch us in the act.”

“Another night with Sogliato?”

“I should think not.”

Bedelia sat forward, her posture improper. “A lack in your appetite or in his?”

“It would depend on the appetite in question.”

_ “Hannibal.” _

He dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “He has no desire for congress, and I have no desire to rid myself of him.”

She tutted, looking absently into her tea, and Hannibal was suddenly transported into the past, to their dalliance in Bohemia. “Has Mr Graham an idea as to your more, dare I say, unsavory pastimes?”

“He has assisted via obfuscation on the rare occasion when Inspector Crawford finds insight.”

“Now that  _ is _ interesting.” The sudden fire that springs to her face—that reminds Hannibal of Bohemia, too, of her heaving breath as she watched Hannibal beat the life from an erstwhile poet. “Do you still claim the Atlantic seaboard as your preferred hunting grounds?”

“My independent holidays are rare these days. I mostly go where Graham goes.” Hannibal disliked how the admission of his weakness brought a gleam to her eyes. “Someone must keep him,” he said. “He’s hardly fit to set out on his own devices for long periods of time.”

“Would your lamb get lost?” She gave Hannibal no time to answer. “Whatever the reason for your arrested travels, it has deprived us of so much time together. Rather,  _ he _ has deprived us of so much time. Why should I be predisposed to—how to put it?”

“Assist his research?” Hannibal reached for her hand around the table, hated the glove and society for insisting she cover herself so fully. “You would deny any opportunity for my tipping of the velvet?”

“It’s not the opportunity that gives me pause, but the audience himself.”

“Graham is hardly worse than the Corinthian when we last met in London. A great deal better, I should say.”

“He did perish rather prettily, didn’t he?”

Hannibal wasn’t one to roll his eyes, but it was a struggle not to, Bedelia’s smile innocent as a man bound for the gallows. “Graham is my greatest friend.”

“And what, then, is my position?” asked Bedelia, acting affronted.

“Either beneath or above me,” Hannibal said, and he toasted her shocked face with his teacup. “Dependent upon the lady’s preference, of course.”

The blush on her cheeks was higher still. “Such assumptions,” she said, and they sat with their tea until the luncheon crowd disturbed them, at last.

 

* * *

 

Young Abigail had always been a skittish girl, and that morning was no different. Taken in by Miss Chiyoh as a child, Hannibal remained primarily unaware of her history, though Graham had read her upon their meeting. He never made effort to illuminate Hannibal, though, so Hannibal respected Graham’s decision.

No matter her secrets, Abigail’s nervous condition was exacerbated whenever law enforcement entered the premises. Inspector Crawford caused her the most distress, and Hannibal shared her feelings toward the man.

But Abigail hadn’t met Hannibal at the door since the Great Hiatus during Graham’s absence, when Hannibal’s gloom had been thicker than Miss Chiyoh’s soups.

“He’s still here,” Abigail told him in a rush, rubbing her fingers beneath her ever-present neckerchief. “He’s still here, sir, and I believe Mr Graham may have shot him!”

Hannibal looked up the stairs. “How dreadful.”

“Miss Chiyoh refuses to go see, sir, and you know how I am with blood.” The fingers of Abigail’s other hand twisted in her apron.

“Of course, Abigail. I’ll sort it out.” She bent her head, and curtsied, and scurried back to the kitchen. “No cause for alarm,” he assured Bedelia as they made their way upstairs. “Graham’s had plenty of opportunity to end the man—he’d never do so in our own rooms.”

“It would be a nice accompaniment to the hole in the chimney.”

Hannibal stopped on the landing. “I’d all but forgotten that.”

The door to his and Graham’s rooms did little to muffle the sound of Crawford’s suddenly booming voice, breaking the eerie silence, but Hannibal knew he would still have to sedate Abigail later. She certainly would not have heard this most recent din, being deafened in one ear as she was, not to mention downstairs.

Graham and Crawford rarely spoke in hushed voices, and more was the pity. There were times in which Hannibal wished for Abigail’s aural condition.

“You appear to be alive,” Graham replied. Bedelia turned to press her ear against the door, her hearing not as acute as Hannibal’s, either. “As it’s doubtful that any of your men’s service revolvers are calibrated as well as yours, it follows that none of them shot the lady reporter.”

“They could have used a personal firearm.”

“Also doubtful, given the beveling of the bullet. Unless any of your men have a rifle of the Revolutionary period.”

Crawford’s voice rose further, enough for Bedelia to step back from the door. “How in God’s name could you know that—”

“There was such a rifle stolen from your hideous museum two weeks’ past, was there not?” asked Graham. Hannibal took Bedelia’s coat, enjoying the pitched humor in Graham’s voice.

“I—well, yes, but—”

“That detail wasn’t released to the public, yes, yes, I know.”

Crawford continued to stammer. “Then how—”

“You may recall the murder of Miss Nichols the same day. It’s really quite simple, Inspector—her body showed the same impact of such a bullet, the same sort of wound our intolerable Miss Lounds suffered.”

“A non-lethal shot.”

Graham barked a laugh. “Likely a comment on her atrocious yellow journalism.”

At that, Hannibal opened the door. “Truly a wonder that you haven’t shot her already, yourself,” he said, addressing Graham.

“This is no talk for a lady!” Crawford indicated Bedelia with a tip of his head. “Is there not another room you could use for entertaining your guest, Doctor?”

“Miss Du Maurier is an actress,” said Graham, still dusting gunpowder residue from his sleeves. Hannibal noticed a new hole in the portrait of Graham’s great nemesis, Professor Dolarhyde. The painting was more accurate now, Hannibal supposed. “As such,” Graham continued, “she’s used to such unsavory topics.”

“You make the same assumptions as your keeper.” Bedelia sat herself purposefully in Graham’s armchair, perching in the exact spot where she had first seen him. “I see why you like him so much, Dr. Lecter.

“The two of you remind me of each other,” Hannibal replied.

Graham waved his hands at both of them—“No matter,” he said. “I’ve just solved three cases for our dim-witted Inspector. It will be a nice change of pace to converse with the two of you, instead.”

Crawford scowled. “I still need to locate the murder weapon.”

“Check the inevitable mud on Miss Lounds’ shoes,” said Graham flippantly. “Wherever she was, the murderer was also. Seeing as he’s not a very bright boy, the rifle should be at hand.”

“And as to the mushroom garden?”

Graham sighed dramatically. “I would interrogate any overnight chemist working near the university. Given the disparate ages of the victims and their various states and types of disease, it follows that your gardener has employed himself there to serve both faculty and students.”

“Incredible, Graham!” Bedelia hid her mouth behind her hand; she must know that Hannibal played a part for the Inspector as much as Graham did. Still, it nauseated Hannibal, being laughed at.

“Elementary, my dear Lecter. Now,” said Graham, taking Crawford by the arm and leading him to the door, “you must excuse us, seeing as you have managed to cancel all of our plans for the day.”

An apology never came. Hannibal hadn’t expected one. Neither did he expect for Graham to return to sit down heavily beside Bedelia in the corner of his chair, one arm stretched along the back.

“I had no idea you were a compulsive vegetarian,” he said to Bedelia. “Lecter hardly needed the extra kidney; good cases have been few and far between recently.”

Bedelia schooled her face almost as well as Hannibal did. “I am loathe to copy Inspector Crawford—”

“And thank God for that!’

“—but however did you know?”

Graham grinned crookedly, sitting back up, hands steepled in front of his mouth. “You may encourage Lecter’s proclivities, but I doubt you share his...other preferences, as it were.” He tapped the tips of his forefingers together, then glanced at Bedelia from the corner of his eye. “Lecter surprised you with a meal once, I suspect—your first meal together. He’s an odd fellow, having a culinary hobby. Miss Chiyoh refuses to let him cook; she says it’s ‘improper’.”

Bedelia fiddled with the clasp of her purse. Hannibal had never seen her look so ill at ease. “You seem to take Hannibal’s most unusual qualities in stride.”

“He accepts my eccentricities,” said Graham. “Why should I not extend the same courtesy?”

“We both tread a tenuous rope.” Bedelia looked meaningfully at Hannibal, though why she would expect any denial of fact, Hannibal wasn’t sure. When Hannibal did nothing but look back at her, Bedelia breathed deeply, taking a moment to smooth her skirt. “Speaking of things tenuous,” she continued, “Hannibal tells me that you’re desirous of a personal performance.”

“Why,  _ madam. _ How forward of you.” Bedelia seemed poised to smack him, and Graham must have noticed, too—why wouldn’t he?—as he rose from his chair and stood out of her reach. “I suppose I should explain myself further, to both of you.” Graham took up his usual pacing spot in front of the fireplace, walking along the worried line in the bearskin rug. His hands remained clasped behind him as he strode and his audience waited.

“I am a man of singular focus,” he began. “My marvelous gift allows me no time to think of other pursuits. Any hobby I have—my music, chess, chemical wanderings—all of these serve a purpose: to further define my niche in the world. My fate is to detect and, thus, detect I shall. Obviously, I have taken pains to observe all manner of activities; in this, Lecter has been most helpful, giving me excellent practice in the art of subterfuge which, in turn, sharpens my own deductive reasoning.

“Never have I had opportunity to bear witness to that greatest of passions, the act and desire which fuels the irrationality of so many criminals. It had occurred to me that I could simply seek out a participatory partner, but my utter lack of carnal want would hardly lend the knowledge I require.”

“So I am your convenient alternative to sending your companion to a bordello?” Bedelia asked with a huff.

Graham stilled, and Hannibal took him in: the dove gray of his suit, donned almost properly; the blue-green tie Hannibal had given him at Christmas; his hair, made impeccable at some point during Crawford’s visit, though one curl remained errant, as always. There was a stab of unusual jealousy in Hannibal’s chest. Bedelia and Graham would make a handsome pair, albeit an exceedingly unhappy one, and Hannibal quickly reminded himself that he would prove a better mate.

(In truth, he was possessive of the both of them. Having them together in the same room was as thrilling as it was terrifying.)

Bedelia allowed Graham her hands as he sat back down beside her. “You misunderstand me,” he said to her softly. “It is not only sexual congress I wish to observe, but an act of love and devotion. You have a strange romance, the two of you. Beholding it would be both educational and an honor.” He looked at her— _ at _ her, not  _ past _ her, and Hannibal was astonished. “Despise each other as we might, I already hold you in great esteem simply from the way Lecter has spoken of you. Meeting you has done nothing but cement my emotions—you give an excellent first impression, I think.”

She swallowed; Hannibal believed he did likewise, but couldn't be sure. “You believe us to be in love?”

“No, I  _ know _ at least _one_ of you to be in love,” said Graham. “Whether or not you have bothered to discuss it is hardly my business.”

Hannibal was suddenly aware of how striking Bedelia’s boots were. He dragged his eyes back up her body, watching how the crisp lines of her skirt still managed to drape her curves, flowing, soft and sharp from one fold to the next. 

“Which is humorous, I suppose,” Graham went on, if only to himself, “given that I have made the affairs of your loins my business. Then  _ again, _ matters of the heart are lost upon me, so perhaps it isn’t laughable, at all.”

Another lungful of heavy air, and Hannibal was aware of Bedelia’s scent like never before, though he could not discern the precise bouquet. All he knew was that he had purchased it for her during their time in Madrid, both the perfume and the powder, and so the floral notes hardly mattered, for it was  _ theirs, _ his and hers.

Hannibal’s tongue was thick in his mouth. He wondered if she recalled his cologne.

“I have one condition,” said Bedelia, and whatever spell had transfixed them evaporated like so much mantel dust.

“Name it.” Graham’s tone betrayed his eagerness, as it did in all academic pursuits.

“There is to be a reception in three days’ time,” she explained. “Socializing and dancing and a bit of press.”

“Two of those disgust me entirely,” Graham told her. “The other I find barely tolerable.”

“I am aware. However, if you wish for me to even consider your...exercise, as it were, then you will attend alongside me. Both of you,” and she had regained full control of her speech by the time hers and Hannibal’s eyes locked. “An escort for each elbow. We’ll have the hall’s full attention.”

“I’m not entirely certain the study is worth the sacrifice.” Graham sounded ill.

Bedelia took back her hands, folding them neatly in her lap. “If you want to play, Mr Graham, then you must pay.”

Hannibal returned her smile, and began to devise whatever ruse necessary to drag Graham to his tailor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm attempting to wrap this up by the end of November, so I'll be updating this again (hopefully) soon!

**Author's Note:**

> I know this will be at least four chapters, but there's a possibility for a fifth depending on length. If you're enjoying this so far, please consider sharing [the accompanying moodboard on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/165946118324/the-fair-ladys-game-by-shiphitsthefan)!
> 
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> 
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